


To the Anvil, let fall the hammer

by Maewn



Series: We are not the heroes [9]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blacksmithing, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maewn/pseuds/Maewn
Summary: Not for the first time, Salda is thankful that she took up swordsmithing at her mother's insistence. Today, the heat from the forge beats back the chill enough that she may work in relative comfort.A day in the life of a smith in a fractured Skyrim, during a time of civil war.





	To the Anvil, let fall the hammer

Not for the first time, Salda is thankful that she took up swordsmithing at her mother’s insistence. Today, the heat from the forge beats back the chill enough that she may work in relative comfort.

It also helps that she’s managed to have time to drink her coffee in peace for once, at least until Ami had stumbled into the forge, bleary-eyed and yawning, her dark braid in disarray.

She’s a good apprentice, if a little late to rise from her bed.

Salda shoves her bar of wrought iron back amidst the coals, watching the metal heat to glowing orange before setting it against the anvil and hammering it flat.

There are a few swords that need sharpening, but Salda is content to let Ami do that work. She isn’t ready for the forge just yet.

The larger orders are thusly left to Salda’s capable hands.

Her forge and home lie twenty miles south of Windhelm, thankfully near enough the hot water pools that the chill of north is lessened most days, but as it is winter and it wouldn’t be Skyrim if there wasn’t some snow drifting on the wind, the bite of the northern winds still nips at her nose while she works.

“Forge-master Sun-Hair,” a voice calls.

Salda makes sure her work is good to leave for a minute or two and steps back from the anvil, to squint down the road.

It’s a small group, only about five or so. She recognizes the banner as that of Lord Saakar, a merchant who frequently patronizes her forge.

“Good morning, my lord,” she replies as the group comes to a halt before her. “What brings you to my forge?”

“Looking for a new dagger,” Saakar grumbles as one of his guards, Hjalti, if Salda remembered correctly, came to his side to help the aging man down from his horse. Saakar was a short, grey-haired man with pale blue eyes and close-cropped silvery hair.

“Have you broken _another_ one on a wolf’s face, my lord?” Salda asks, amused.

“Perhaps, if you consider an irritating Stormcloak a wolf,” Saakar growls. “More like an overgrown puppy drunk on mead, if you ask me.”

“Well, my lord,” Salda says, “I do have a few daggers for you to peruse at your leisure. Come, warm yourself by my forge while I fetch them.”

The cold, she knows, is hard enough on his joints as it is. His journeys northwards have become less frequent as he ages, and one day Salda is sure he will send word that he is staying in Markarth where the climate is kinder.

Salda locates her selection of honed daggers, unlocking the case and setting it out for Saakar’s discerning eye.

Hjalti ghosts along beside his lord, grey eyes flicking about the forge, resting for a moment on Ami, who is determinedly running a whetstone down the length of a blade, before moving on.

“You do good work, forge-master,” Hjalti says softly. He was a tall Nord, with blond hair and a silvering beard, who wore a sword of Orcish make at his hip.

“Thank you,” Salda replies. “Though I admit your lord has broken quite a few of my blades against his foes.”

“It’s no fault of the craftsmanship,” Saakar says, “Rather that time wears on all things.”

“Like your joints, my lord,” another of Saakar’s guards jokes, an Altmer woman with green eyes and half-shorn dark hair.

“That too,” Saakar admits with a grimace, “How much for this one, forge-master?”

Salda glances at the dagger. It’s one of her more recent works, with silver inlaid into the handle, made with ebony.

Ebony is difficult to work with, but produces a keener edge than most weapons. But many Nords seemed to prefer their steel and iron to the more so-called _exotic_ ebony and elven weapons.

Salda can’t say she really prefers any type; as long as it kills whatever she needs dead, it works for her.

A blade is a blade, her mother had once told her, no matter who made it or its material. As long as it works, what does it matter?

“1,750 septims, my lord,” Salda says without an ounce of guilt. Most people who come to her know the pricing she keeps and Saakar is no different. He has patronized her long enough to know she doesn’t do discounts, not even for old friends.

Saakar snorts. “Of course it is.” He reaches for his coin purse, counting out the golden septims, a task that takes him no more than two minutes.

Salda occupies herself by finding the dagger’s sheath and securing it, handing it over to Hjalti as his lord counts.

“We’ve company, lord,” one of Saakar’s guard murmurs, a thin Breton with sharp blue eyes, who nudges his horse forwards, staff resting across his lap.

“People use this road often, Rallis,” Hjalti says. “It is no worry.”

Saakar hands over the septims to Salda, who tucks them away, peering down the road to where Rallis is looking.

She frowns, catching sight of light glancing off spearblades and shields. Stormcloak soldiers are marching for Windhelm, all armed for war.

Salda shifts to block Ami’s view of the road. The last thing Ami needs is for her to see those bear-helmed men and have a battle-memory rise up to swallow her waking mind.

“Miss Salda?” Ami asks, confused as Salda’s movement has no doubt distracted her.

“Hush,” Salda says, looking back at her. “Go back to your work. Don’t look at the road, lass.”

“Yes, miss,” Ami replies, bowing her head over the blade again.

It takes nearly twenty minutes for the soldiers to pass by and the entire time, Salda is tense as a taut bowstring.

She left Windhelm for a reason.

She has no love of Stormcloaks, and will not devote her anvil and hammer to their war that has shattered both her father’s homeland and harmed her apprentice.

Saakar watches the column march on, an unreadable expression on his wrinkled face. “We’d best be off,” he says, “Hjalti, help me up.”

“Yes, lord,” Hjalti murmurs, boosting his lord into the saddle before swinging up onto his own horse.

“Safe travels,” Salda says as Saakar turns his horse’s nose southwards.

Saakar nods. “Farewell, forge-master,” he says.

Salda doesn’t watch them go, returning to her anvil to hammer her current project flat.

“Are you done with that sword yet, Ami?” she asks.

“Almost, miss,” Ami says. “Are they gone?”

“Yes,” Salda says, hitting the metal a little harder than she had intended to. “I think I’ll ask the Lady Gaerhart about warding the forge and the house. We might need it soon.”

“The war is getting worse you mean,” Ami says quietly.

“Aye, that’s how war is,” Salda says. “It always gets worse. There’s nothing glorious about war, lass. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. It’s gory, bloody work.”

Both Salda’s mother, a Redguard named Yisla, and Salda herself have seen battle. Yisla had fought during the war with the Dominion prior to the signing of the Second Treaty of Stros M’kai and Salda had fought in the skirmishes in the twenty years after the Markarth Incident, as the Reachmen attempted to take back the land they’d been pushed from.

Salda has scars down her back where a Reachman tried to sever her spine in the midst of a battle, desperate to wound the incoming soldiers as the shield wall broke into chaos.

Salda can still remember the screams of the dying and howls of the victors in the mist-shrouded valley that day, clear as any temple bell in the morning.

She shoves the metal back into the forge’s heart, watching it warm to a bright orange again before returning it to the anvil, hammering at the edge.

“Ami,” she says, “I think you should watch for a while.”

“Watch you work, miss?” Ami asks, head darting up from her task, pointed ears twitching with what Salda’s come to realize means excitement in elves.

“Aye,” Salda says. It would also distract Ami from thoughts of the coming war for a time.

Ami carefully sets aside the blade which is honed to deadly sharpness and comes to Salda’s side where she can watch without fear of the sparks from Salda’s hammer.

“See how I’ve turned the edge here?” Salda asks, gesturing with her hammer.

“Yes, miss,” Ami says.

“I want to draw out the metal, making it thinner,” Salda explains, bringing her hammer down again, sparks scattering into the air.

“So you can make a proper sword,” Ami says.

“Correct,” Salda says. “Any idiot can take a bar of metal, sharpen its edges and call it a sword, but a proper blade takes time and care, like any craft.”

“What _do_ you call an improper blade?” Ami asks.

“A club with grand ideas,” Salda says, prompting a giggle from Ami.

“Now,” Salda continues, “we keep heating the metal until we’ve gotten the shape we want for the blade. After that, we’ll heat and quench it to harden the metal, and repeat until it’s the exact hardness we want.”

“Do you always use water?” Ami asks.

Salda shrugs, “Some use oils I’ve heard. My mother always used water, though she insisted on leaving a smooth pebble at the bottom of the vat for luck. And she would always pray to Leki before, to bless the sword’s creation.”

Leki is the goddess of swordsmanship, and Salda herself always prays at the shrine in her home before she goes to the forge in the morning. Her mother may have moved to Skyrim upon wedding Salda’s father, but she had not left her religion behind.

And Salda has always felt closer to her mother’s gods than those of her father’s.

“We’re not ready to quench the metal just yet,” Salda says, eyeing the bar beneath her hammer which is losing its glow. “It still needs work.”

“Do you want me to fill the vat?” Ami asks.

“In a bit, lass,” Salda says, “I’ll tell you when.”

Ami smiles at her. Salda is glad to see it; it’s been a while since Ami has smiled so brightly.

“Okay,” Ami says, her red eyes glittering like rubies in the forge-light. “When can I start using the forge?”

“Some time soon,” Salda promises, “Not yet. You’ll learn by watching me first, then we’ll start you on small daggers. They’re a bit more forgiving for apprentice-work.”

Ami nods, grinning now. “Yes, miss!”

Salda snorts at the enthusiasm. “You might change your mind when you’ve caught your eyebrows on fire.”

“Have you done that?” Ami asks.

Salda grimaces, “A few times. I leaned too far over the forge, ignoring my mother’s warnings. She thought it was hilarious.”

Ami giggles again. “I think I’ll be alright, miss. I am a Dunmer, we’re a bit more resistant to fire.”

“I suppose,” Salda says, returning the metal to the forge. “Why don’t you go start filling the vat, we’ll probably need it in an hour or so.”

“Yes, miss,” Ami says, darting to the edge of the forge for the buckets. They get most of their water from the hot springs, which are a few minutes walk from the forge. The quenching vat isn’t large, so it doesn’t take long for Ami to fill it and then she’s practically glued to Salda’s side, watching her shape the metal to its proper form.

“So after we quench the blade?” Ami asks.

“We let it cool. We’ll work on the edge after that,” Salda says, “It’ll be a while though,” she mutters, eyeing the blade.

“Okay,” Ami says, humming quietly as she watches.

Salda recognizes the tune as one of the more subdued ballads she’s heard sung by the Lady Gaerhart’s bard.

Salda and Ami had visited the Lady’s household just a few months ago, delivering an order of wrought bronze torcs. The Lady had invited them to stay the night and it had done wonders to bring Ami out of her shell, at least, for a night.

The Lady usually buys more delicate pieces from Salda and pays well for them. It’s a nice change from the more straightforward orders.

“How about we pay the Lady a visit after this is cooled,” Salda says. “Seeing as we’ll need to speak with her anyways.”

“Can we?” Ami asks, delighted as ever to visit the Lady Gaerhart.

Salda snorts, the lass has a fondness for the Lady the width of Skyrim. Lady Gaerhart just seems amused by it, but has said nothing on the matter to Ami, not as far as Salda can tell.

Salda is also certain that the Lady’s heart is given already, seeing how she looks at her servant, Emrys.

But Salda’s not one to judge, so she lets the matter lie. They’re all adults, they can talk about their feelings with one another like sane people.

“Ami, could you sing something with a little more rhythm to it?” she asks, “so I have something to time my hammer strikes with?”

“Oh yes!” Ami says, launching into a song that Salda recognizes as one of the sea shanties that they heard from a bard in the tavern while they were still living in Windhelm.

“That’ll do just fine,” Salda says, smiling and brings the hammer down.


End file.
